Once Bitten, Twice Died
by Cider Sky
Summary: Daryl stood, glancing down at the bite wound, angry and swollen and gushing precious blood. A death sentence. Except, he wakes up three days later, alive as the rest of the them. Gen. Multi-Chapter.
1. Dead and Gone

Once Bitten, Twice Died  
>By Cider Sky<p>

* * *

><p><em>You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, 'I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.'<em>

_ -_Eleanor Roosevelt

* * *

><p>When he felt the Walker's teeth sink into his forearm, all the way to the bone, his first thought was that of genuine surprise.<p>

He'd been bit. _Him._ _Bit._

Though they faced the threat of being bitten and killed – or whatever this was – everyday, he had never really expected himself to go that way. He'd faced too many, _killed_ too many.

But an impressive kill tally meant nothing to the dead, he figured. If anything it was incentive for the dumb bastards to purposefully seek him out, if they could do such a complicated thing as think, let alone collude.

He was pulling Glenn from under a gate when it happened. The dumb kid had snagged a belt loop or his shirt or pack, _something,_ and was struggling under the chain link fence like a dog with a caught collar.

The younger man was kicking at the Walkers at his feet, shouting for the rest of the group to stop, all of who had cleared the obstacle with no problems. They hadn't initially looked back because to have done so would have been dangerous – there were more than three-dozen on their tail and most certainly more ahead. In that kind of situation, you _didn__'__t_ look back.

When his panic shouts split the air it was him and Rick that turned back to help, Shane and Andrea covering their backs.

Rick pulled at the man's arms while Daryl pulled at the snagged pack and then it happened. A dozen Walkers were at the gate, clawing, biting, and Glenn was kicking and Daryl's arm was just in the right position.

He grunted, eyes widening in surprise as he pulled away, just as the sound of ripping fabric signaled the Korean's freedom.

They fell back in a heap and Rick ushered Glenn to his feet, giving the man a questioning glance.

"I'm fine, I'm fine –" Daryl stood too, glancing down at the wound, angry and swollen and gushing precious blood.

It had been so quick that initially it had just felt like pressure, like a crushing fist wrapping around his arm.

But then -

- then came the acute awareness of how painful it was, how he hadn't expected it to burn this much, the wound tingling as though the very saliva of these monsters was a thick, acidic poison.

He didn't have much time to dwell because they were running again. He realized that no one had seen it happen, that there had been too many crowding them, that it was too dark to see the bite amidst his dirt stained body.

The gun in his hands felt heavy because he knew what he was supposed to do.

_Zero__tolerance__for__Walkers._ His own words echoed in his head and wasn't it just the way? Here he was, hesitating. After he had tried to attack Jim, to _kill_ Jim and had been so adamant about putting Amy down.

He didn't want to die a huge fucking hypocrite, or be later deemed as someone too pussy to take his own advice.

But.

Carl was crying and Carol was holding the gun forced upon her with shaky hands. Dale looked spent and was clutching that old rifle like it was som divine artifact. T-Dog was wide-eyed, panicked, maybe, as he took in scene around him, clearly understanding that their ammo didn't match the amount of Walkers crawling out of every single corner.

Even Rick and Shane looked unsure as they ushered Lori and Maggie ahead with a blood splattered Andrea and a machete-wielding Glenn.

"Just keep running –" Rick shouted as he took another shot, each one attracting more Walkers. "Don't stop."

The bite-wound ached and he really knew that he was a lost cause; kinda knew it all along, even before this.

But -

They were so far up shit's creek that it didn't seem right. They needed the manpower. They needed protection, _his_ protection while it still lasted.

So he followed them, shotgun raised because he had long run out of arrows, the crossbow now acting only as a giant weight on his back. When they had a minute to breath he wrapped the red rag, the one he constantly kept in his back pocket, around the wound.

It did nothing to staunch the bleeding or to dull the pain.

And then suddenly, after what felt like hours of struggling, they made it back to the access gate they had parked the cars at, the one that had been too narrow to drive through. The private community had looked so promising, so Walker free from the vantage point at the top of the lone access road.

They filed into their cars – the RV, the Cherokee, that ridiculous green Honda – and fled, watching as the Walkers crashed into the gates, bloody, rotting, _enraged._

Daryl took a seat at the kitchenette table inside the RV and briefly wished he hadn't left his – Merle's – motorcycle behind. It would have been far easier to sneak away, to die like a fucking man.

The last thing he wanted was for these people, people who couldn't give two shits about him to see him this way, to be forced to deal with his … condition, to _pretend_ to care when he died.

He huffed and tucked his arm in, listening as Dale murmured to himself, or maybe he was talking to Glenn and Maggie, he couldn't tell, as they trudged along the dirt road, adrenaline still high.

He peeled the rag back, taking in the ugly, torn bite. It looked almost identical to the one he had seen on Jim, on Amy and Sophia, and that thought brought back a spark of rage.

Is this what she had experienced, what they had experienced?

He imagined it as the RV rattled back and forth. Imagined the little girl crying out in pain, crying through the burning in her neck and the fever, that damn fever.

She had died in pain and so utterly alone.

His throat felt tight as he stared down at the wound.

When the RV's pace evened out, when it seemed as though tensions had lowered and they were no longer in danger, he spoke.

"Stop the RV." And already his voice was hoarse; he cleared his throat and tried again. "Stop the RV!"

"What? Why?" Glenn and Maggie had been hovering behind Dale, their eyes on the road and it seemed as though they might have forgotten that he two had hitched a ride.

"We can't stop now, those peo-those Walkers are out there."

"Just do it!" Maggie's face scrunched up as it always did when she heard a tone she didn't like.

Despite the words that echoed in his head, _zero__tolerance__for__Walkers,_ his heart was hammering.

Though maybe it was just the infection spreading. He could already feel the sweat dripping down his temples, the way his body was beginning to feel a little too hot -

Dale turned back, an expression of annoyance on his features.

"Are you insane? We just barely made it out of there and –" Daryl grunted, the man talked too damn much.

He stood and pulled back the soaked rag, thrusting his forearm forward.

That got their attention.

The RV screeched to a jolting stop and three sets of eyes were upon him.

* * *

><p>"There ain't no arguin' about it, you had no problem pointin' that thing at me before –"<p>

His voice was husky and he could feel the sweat dripping down his back as he paced within the small clearing they had pulled into.

Everyone was eyeing him warily, but other than that it was a mixed bag of emotions, something he was genuinely confused and a little pissed over.

Didn't these idiots know anything? This is how they dealt with Walkers, how they were going to deal with _him._

"That was different –" and sure, he figured it was, Rick had never killed a living man before, couldn't do it when Jim was bitten, couldn't do it now.

He felt a stab of rage course through him when the former Sheriff turned to look at the RV.

Rick had long since ushered Lori and Carl away, into the vehicle, with Shane close behind. The man hadn't seemed particularly effected by the situation, something Daryl had expected, so it didn't sting much when he eyed him the way he always did, like he was redneck trash, and spat at Rick, "You deal with this."

"We-we can't do this – he's still, he's still Daryl –" Glenn chipped in like it was some kind of debate.

"Yeah, but he won't be –" Maggie. The girl had really grown up since the damn barn incident.

"I don't like this, man, not after all he–" T-Dog. That was a surprise. An annoying, ridiculous surprise.

Maybe they had gotten used to him being around by now, maybe they were realizing that they were about to kill their only means of finding fresh meat, fresh food. Whatever it was Daryl wanted it to stop, all this fake sympathy, acting as though losing him would really affect any one of them, it was making him sick.

Or maybe that was the infection, the _fever._ He felt like hell and had he been smart enough to grab his own pistol before exiting the RV he would have blown his own brains out.

But, no. For some reason, some idiotic, sentimental reason, he had wanted someone else to do it. Wanted to, in his own fucked up way, say goodbye to the others, even if that meant just announcing the news and then promptly having Rick shoot him in the face.

"Stop bein' such a fuckin' pussy –" It came out more like a gasp than anything substantial, anything convincing.

They were arguing, about him, but he didn't really hear any of it. He was too busy trying not to fall on his ass – whatever this was, this infection, it was death incarnate and he wanted to go out with some dignity. Not caught in some hideous hallucinations, crying out, moaning, and begging for it to stop, just as Jim had.

His muscles were lead and he could swear his teeth were buzzing and that his damn hair hurt, right to the tips. He could feel himself fading, fast. It was dragging him down, marking its claim on him, lighting his blood on fire and making his vision blur and twist in horrific ways.

For a moment he was sure, absolutely sure that he had seen Sophia, standing next to her mother as she joined in their pointless argument; the argument for his wasted life, an argument that he had done nothing to warrant.

"We don't put our people down like sick dogs, not until … not until –"

"It's what he wants, Carol – "

He was quickly loosing his hold on consciousness, it had been two, three hours since he had been bitten and his time was up. He chuckled though it came out as a choking cough. Leave it to these people to discuss a situation as black and white as this, at a _time_ like this.

Why, he thought, hadn't he just ended it himself? Why hadn't he ended it as soon as it had happened? Why had he stuck around at all?

Just before everything went black and he was sent crashing to the ground, through his succumbing to the virus or by the mercy of a bullet, he wouldn't know, couldn't know, he had one final thought:

_Because you didn't want to die alone._

* * *

><p>"It's been hours, didn't Jenner say –" He didn't know why Lori's voice had any presence in his afterlife, but there she was, distorted and strange sounding, but there all the same.<p>

"I know, I know what Jenner said," who was that? Rick? "It just, it doesn't make any sense, he should've –"

Should've what, Daryl wondered. What could these figments of his apparent hell be discussing?

"Turned?" Dale. Now this was just bizarre. This had to be hell if the old man was going to stick around, sharing his two cents for the rest of eternity. He tried to see what was happening, to open his eyes, if the dead, spirits, ghosts, whatever, had eyes, but there was Dale again, "Should've died?"

Daryl tried to make heads or tails of that particular bit of information but it was too much for his mind to handle, and once again there was nothing but darkness.

Death was a strange thing, made of nothing but pain and tormenting images. But did he deserve any better?

Merle sat beside him, filling his head with terrible, negative thoughts, his smiling face looming over him. _Worthless.__Traitor.__Pathetic._ All repeated over and over and over again, echoing, inescapable.

And Carol was there too, telling him he didn't try hard enough, Sophia too, begging him to help her, her neck wet with blood and gore.

Rick stood over him, that revolver pointed at his head.

… _scrape you off their heels like you was dog shit …_

"Do it, man." Shane slipped in behind the other man, ever-present shotgun in tow. "Bout time."

… _no one ever gonna care bout you 'cept me, baby brother …_

"Do it, Rick. Take the shot." Andrea.

This was hell and he deserved it.

* * *

><p>His head felt … clear, at least as clear as it could be with that gentle throbbing in his temples and the hideous weakness that had taken over his body.<p>

But that couldn't be right. Having a body and all that.

He was dead.

Right?

* * *

><p>He had always expected this groups ridiculous sense of sentimentality to get him killed –<p>

- so there was no reason for him to have anticipated waking up with three sets of eyes staring down at him.

He flinched, pulling backwards and flailing slightly. A strong grip caught his arm and eased him back into a sitting position and as his vision cleared he realized it was Rick, Carol and Lori hovering at his side.

"Hey, easy, Daryl, easy," Daryl groaned as the light of the room suddenly became too much, "just relax."

Relax? How was he supposed to 'relax'? Hadn't he been bitten? Yes, yes he knew that for a fact, his damn arm still _burned._

"Wha' happened?" It was all he could manage and hell, he sounded like shit, but that was no surprise, he felt like he had been hit by a semi and promptly scraped off the pavement.

A glass of water was pushed into his hand and had he not had an audience it would've slipped from his grasp, so powerful was the weakness in his limbs.

"We're not sure." Rick paused to look between Lori and Carol, before turning back to him, a certain wariness set on his features, "we were hoping maybe you could tell us."

Daryl's initial reaction was to call the man out on that ridiculous statement. Tell them … what the hell could he tell them?

He looked down at the bandage around his forearm, the blood stained cloth making this all very, very real. He had been bit. Just like Jim and Amy and Sophia and everyone else he knew before this. Just like every single Walker out there.

Just like them, but not at all.

He wanted to turn away, couldn't handle them looking at him like they were, confused, _scared_, but there was nowhere to go.

"Should be dead –" he rasped, eyes turned downwards.

No one disagreed and no one offered an answer.

* * *

><p>They were afraid of him. He heard it all from the RV and for fuck's sake; didn't these people know that tents and vehicles were not in fact soundproof?<p>

"Is he – you know … really alive?"

"What if he turns?"

"Maybe Jenner was wrong …"

"This was a mistake. He should've done it. Someone should've done it."

He lay there for two days, listening to them talk in circles, offering theories like he was a damn murder mystery novel.

And he really could've have told them so, could've told them they would regret their decision.

They had expected him to turn into a Walker, had been too damn sensitive to do something about it when they should have.

But now here he is, alive, and they don't know what the fuck to do.

He figured he had been right, that it had all been utter crap, that it was just their conscious saying those things, because now that they have him, they don't even want him anymore.

Daryl finally couldn't take it anymore and, despite Carol's insisting he stay in bed, he stumbled out of the RV, right into the middle of it.

"We can't do it, Rick, keeping him around like this." Shane looked absolutely enraged when he finally saw him, yet despite his apparent anger he kept his distance, pacing as he took in Daryl's appearance.

Daryl fought the pathetic thing inside him that wanted to cover his arm; that wanted to turn away and hide. He forced himself to stand tall, as tall as he could with the ache that had settled into his being.

Shane eyed the cloth around his forearm, shaking his head.

"We don't know what – what this is," and though Shane could have been referring to whatever had happened to him, Daryl knew better, knew that by 'this' he was referring to his person, "he's a danger to everyone in this camp."

"We don't know that, Shane."

Despite the familiar rage that swelled and churned within him, Daryl had nothing to say, couldn't say anything.

He _had_ been bitten. He was _infected_, a walking _disease._

* * *

><p>Everyone avoided him like the plague he probably was. Everyone, that is, besides Rick, Carol and, for some reason he would never understand, Glenn.<p>

Lori checked on him, once in a while, but it was clear that though she seemed to understand that avoiding him wasn't helping anyone, she had to do so on principal, for Carl.

For the first time, Daryl agreed. He had always thought they needed to stop babying the kid but – he didn't know what he would do if he turned on the kid, did something to hurt him.

Carol cooked for him, even going as far to ensure he had his own utensils and dinnerware. Shane had made it very clear that if Daryl was to stay he was not to share anything with anyone.

Initially, Daryl had told him to fuck off, but then he saw the look in everyone's eyes. There were no objections,.

Five days after his shaky reintroduction Glenn had approached him, sitting down next to him on the half dead log he had claimed, like his own little leper colony.

"Everyone's pretty freaked out," the kid said with no preamble; he could feel the kid watching him as he sharpened his knife, staring at the gauze covered wound, "I mean – you were bit, right?"

Daryl fixed him with an annoyed stare, well aware of how pale he still looked and how the bags under his eyes only highlighted his 'condition.' He looked … like one of them, without the gore.

"I – yeah, of course you were, we all saw it." An awkward silence descended upon them but Daryl didn't yell, or shout, because hell, this was the first time someone had really tried to speak to him.

Merle would call him pathetic but right now, he didn't care, he just didn't care.

"So, doesn't this make you, like, a superhero, or something? I mean, every superhero has it's origin story, this is like _yours__-_" Glenn looked scared for a moment, like he knew he might have just crossed some sort of weird line with the hunter.

But to both their surprise, Daryl just huffed, not entirely unamused, and for a moment it seemed like things might be okay.

But really, he was a damn fool to think that.

Dale eyed him, watching his movements from the RV like he was a Walker, waiting for him to lose his mind, to start ripping their group apart. He finally had enough one night and told the older man to do what he was supposed to and keep his eyes on the damn woods.

That night he overheard Dale speaking to Andrea, telling her to stay away. He waited for her to argue, to tell the old fart to stuff it, just like she always seemed to do, but she didn't.

Instead, she replied with a quiet, 'I know.'

That hurt more than anything else.

_Fuck__them_, he thought, _don__' __need__ '__em__anyway._

The question of why he didn't just leave surfaced daily.

The same voice answered back every time.

_Because you don't want to die alone._

* * *

><p>After a week he began to notice a change. It was minor enough to make him even wonder at whether there was really anything there, but then Shane said something.<p>

"Ain't natural." And the man was right, there was nothing natural about it.

He had stolen a peek of himself in a mirror in the RV, more out of curiosity than anything. He noted that yeah, he looked like shit and his hair was getting a bit too long for his liking but the most notable thing, the most disturbing thing were his eyes.

Once a deep blue, his iris' had faded to an almost silver color. It was subtle enough to seem as though they had always been such a pale color, the palest of blues, maybe, but against the dark strands of his hair and the constant grime that covered him it was a striking feature.

"You ever see a person's eyes look like that?" He was addressing Rick but Daryl knew he was trying to rally everyone up, to give them a reason to _think_ they needed to fight. "You ever see an illness do _that?_"

"Enough, Shane." Rick warned as Daryl halted his march across the camp, trying to avoid the stares of the others.

"No, man, where do we draw the line, huh?" Daryl stepped forward and hell they must've looked like animals, sizing each other up, waiting for the other to make a move.

This had all been building. _Something_ had to break.

The others were gathering, just like he wanted, and Shane snorted in amusement as he took in the scene.

"What. We all going to pretend that everything's fine? That we're not travellin' around with this – this half-Walker?"

Finally, a damn broke and Daryl found himself launching forward, despite the fact that it would do nothing for his case. He knew the other man was looking for an opening, for a reason to put him down, like he should have been a damn week ago.

But there was Rick again, and Glenn and for some fucked reason, T-Dog, pushing the two men apart.

"He's dangerous, Rick."

"Y' don't know nothin' 'bout this." Daryl managed though it was a weak argument. He knew just as much as everyone else.

Rick was finally able to push the hunter back, away from Shane.

Daryl turned his sights on Rick and though a small part of him knew it was childish he couldn't help but lash out.

More than anything he was angry, so fucking angry.

This should've been someone else, anyone else. This should've been Sophia, not him, some worthless redneck who had no one in his life worrying over him.

Wasn't that just the way? A mother loses her daughter, a woman her sister and here he is, alone in the world, getting off scot-free.

"You were too fucking pussy to put a bullet in my head." It was a statement, more than anything else, but he knew, as Rick was often want to do, he would offer an explanation. "Shoulda done it, would've if ya had the balls."

"We don't kill the living." Rick sounded broken, like it was something he had been reiterating his whole life just to keep him sane.

But Daryl wasn't feeling grateful or sympathetic as he trudged to the edge of the woods.

"Horseshit."

When were they going to stop pretending they gave a single shit? Merle woulda' done it in a second, his own flesh and blood, so why the hell couldn't they?

Later, the thought would haunt his mind, keeping him from any semblance of sleep.

Why couldn't they do it?

He knew there was something to that, _something__important_, but he just couldn't see it.

* * *

><p>"You should eat." Carol came to him one night, standing before that damn log, holding out a plate, the same one she always gave him.<p>

"Not hungry." He grunted, and truth was the idea of eating powdered eggs and Spam was as appetizing as eating shit.

The first few days after his miraculous recovery, he had eaten whatever Carol pushed at him, ravenous as ever, but as the days drew on and he recovered his strength, he couldn't stomach their packaged and canned goods.

It was a damn shame. They had hit the jackpot before all this shit, before he had gotten bit. It was a good thing, too, because he'd been out of commission, unable to hunt. He had no idea what would've happened if they hadn't stumbled upon that stockpile.

To her credit, Carol was a smart woman, perceptive. She gave him a small nod, but instead of leaving, she sat down on the rotted log, close enough that they were nearly shoulder-to-shoulder.

He unconsciously shied away, maintaining a bit of distance.

Thing was, when people told you the same thing over and over, when you heard something about yourself enough, it began to stick.

_Infected. Dangerous. Unnatural. Infected. Dangerous. Unnatural._

He didn't want to hurt Carol. Never Carol.

"I don't take back any of what I said." He knew what she was referring too, but couldn't she see? This wasn't the same. _He_ wasn't the same.

"It's still true, you know." In a motion bolder than he thought she was capable of she gripped his hand and jut her chin upwards, her expression serious.

"Daryl –" He looked over at her, fighting the urge to chew his bottom lip, to give away the anxiety swirling around within him.

"You're not a monster. Stop treating yourself like you are."

Inside him, something stirred and his eyes burned. He was exhausted, tired of this … thing, whatever it was.

If Carol noticed his internal struggle, she didn't say anything. Instead they sat in companionable silence, all while he fought the demons in his head.

* * *

><p>Despite an undeniable disgust for Rick's previous weakness, Daryl was pretty sure the only thing keeping the group from treating him like a complete pariah was the fact that the ex-Sheriff was so fully on his side.<p>

But he knew why. Rick had made a huge fucking mistake, letting him live on like this, and he knew it. It was that absurd sense of morality the man was still carrying with him. He felt _guilty_, there was no better explanation.

"Give them time," Rick had said to him one night, as he sat on that log staring into the fire, "they're just confused, shaken - "

The ex-Sheriff trailed off, taking a moment to look over the group, stopping at his wife and son, both curled in front of the fire.

"Cut the shit, Grimes." He sounded so tired, so fucking pathetic. "You're just as scared as the rest of them."

Rick didn't say anything and Daryl was sure the man was going to leave, to join the others by the fire.

Instead, he spoke.

"The way I see it, what happened was nothing short of a miracle." Daryl couldn't help the scowl that worked its way onto his features. _Miracle?_ The man must have had no idea what that word meant, to call something like this hell a miracle.

"You're not alone in this, Daryl." Daryl stared at him, 'bullshit' on the tip of his tongue, but there was something so real, so sincere in the way the man said it. There was something there, something Daryl wanted to believe.

Rick was long gone when he had finally thought of something to say.

He settled into his sleeping bag and rolled onto his side, facing the woods.

"_We're all alone."_

* * *

><p>Two weeks later and he still felt … off.<p>

No longer did he feel like the infection was going to take him at any moment; that the whole thing had been a fluke and he would turn, eventually, like everyone else.

The headache seemed ever-present and he was only just beginning to regain his strength. He could finally draw his bowstring without breaking into a feverish sweat and he was no longer left breathless by a short walk across camp.

The wound – _the__bite_ – on his arm itched something fierce and in a split decision he began pulling the gauze from his arm, wincing as some of the cloth stuck to the more freshly scabbed areas.

The wound was ugly, but it was healing.

He traced the wound gently, marveling at how much it looked exactly how it was supposed to. There was no mistaking it; it was a human bite.

He would have one hell of a scar. Already were there raised, white bumps where the teeth had penetrated. The edge proximal to the wrist was slower to heal – he remembered how it had felt when he had yanked his arm from the Walker's mouth, how it should have ripped a chunk of flesh from his arm.

He grabbed another bit of cloth, deciding to rewrap it.

Like the rest of his scars, no one needed to see it.

* * *

><p>"Can I see it?" Daryl looked over at Carl and then across the field, for Lori, Rick, anyone, because he wasn't about to get an earful because the kid was feeling adventurous.<p>

"Y' shouldn't be out here." He turned back to fletching his arrows, hoping the kid would just forget about him and wander back to the RV, back to the homework his parents were so adamant about.

"The bite, can I see it?" The kid repeated as if he hadn't heard.

Daryl looked around again. Wasn't someone supposed to be watching him?

Carl inched away and Daryl realized he must have been glaring, he hadn't meant it but, to be fair, it was a sore subject.

"I just wanted to see if it was true, because – " his voice was so small, so timid, Daryl found himself leaning forward _wanting_ to hear this, " – because, Sophia got bit too, didn't she?"

Carl didn't need to finish. Daryl knew what he was asking, what he was implying. He, like the rest of them, were wondering, why him? Why not someone else?

"Please."

He didn't know why he did it, why he felt like he owed it to Carl, but suddenly he was rolling up his sleeve, taking in the hideous raised scar.

For a while, Carl didn't say anything, just stared, and then, with as much care and gentleness possible, he reached out to touch it.

It was only a second but it seemed far longer, a million things racing through Daryl's mind. He wondered whether it was just his imagination that had set the old wound to burning again.

"Does it hurt?" Daryl shook his head, no.

When Carl spoke again it was a sincere, honest thing.

"I'm glad you're okay."

Daryl was so lost in though, so lost in the kid's expression, all tight lines and far too thoughtful for his age, that he didn't even hear Glenn until he was right next to them, huffing in exertion, bending over to plant his palms on his knees as he regained his breath.

"You gave me the slip." Glenn gasped, pulling off his cap to rake a hand through his hair. "Your mom is not gonna be –"

Glenn halted, jaw dropping and Daryl realized his arm was still exposed. He hurried to cover it, pulling his shirtsleeve over it, but it was too later.

"Whoah."

* * *

><p>The next night Glenn came to apologize for intruding and it was an awkward mess. After a good ten minutes of rambling and false starts Daryl had enough and told him to spit it out.<p>

"I-I just feel so stupid. I was comparing it to superpowers, like Superman, or the X-Men, y'know? Like it was something out of a comic book." And then Glenn's expression fell. It looked strange on him, made him look too old, too tired.

"I didn't realize … not until I saw the – well, you know."

"The bite." Daryl snapped, tired of the way he was pussyfooting around him.

"Yeah. The bite. Anyway," the kid looked down again and for a moment Daryl was sure the Korean was going to take to rambling again, but instead, he sighed heavily, weary, and looked up at him, eyes boring into his own, "Daryl, I'm so sorry."

Daryl snorted.

"For what? 'S not your fault."

Glenn was quick to respond, anticipating Daryl's cool rebuttal.

"No one should have to suffer through what you are experiencing. No one deserves that."

The fire cracked and locusts buzzed around them but it all seemed lost to him as he listened.

"You don't deserve that."

He wants to believe it, more than anything.


	2. Hell of a Season

Once Bitten, Twice Died  
>By Cider Sky<p>

* * *

><p><em>On a level of simple personal survival, understanding and forgiveness are crucial...<em>

- Edward Albert

* * *

><p>Finally, they began to treat him like before; before a Walker sunk it's rotted teeth into him.<p>

He figured the turning point had been when they were forced to move camp after a close call with a small herd of Walkers.

Daryl had been right there with them, fighting the undead bastards off with the same fervor as before, his aim deadly and his ability to dispatch the undead unmatched.

They had all piled into their cars while he collected his arrows and for a moment he was sure they were using the attack as an opportunity to finally dump his infected ass.

Instead, Glenn beckoned him from the RV, urging him to move.

"Daryl, c'mon, let's go!"

He hopped into the RV and noted that, for the first time, no one was going out of their way to avoid him, to touch him.

Glenn collapsed into the small kitchenette seats, exhausted, sitting across from Maggie who had drawn her knees to her chest.

Daryl stood, not used to being in such close quarters with them, not wanting to be.

"God, that was close." Andrea muttered as she checked her rifle over, bumping shoulders with him as she moved around the rumbling RV.

It wasn't much, but damn, it was a start.

* * *

><p>He couldn't take it anymore, couldn't take the nauseating smells of baked beans and instant soups.<p>

So, he picked up his crossbow and decided to go hunting. He needed something substantial. He needed meat, fresh meat.

"Where are you going? You're not – you know," Glenn paused, taking in the crossbow, the purposeful stride. The kid thought he was leaving and honestly, he was surprised anyone would stop him if he chose to, "- you don't have to –"

"I ain't leaving. Goin' huntin'." Daryl grunted before continuning towards the woods, all too aware of the fact that Dale was watching from a fold-out and Rick and Lori were listening in, though they were doing their best to appear as though Carl's homework was extremely engaging for all three of them.

"Can I – I mean – someone should go with, right?" Daryl stopped, cocking an eyebrow.

"No way." Maggie stopped pretending to stoke the fire, brushing her hands off before she stood, crossing the gap between them with a few short steps.

"Maggie –" Glenn started. Daryl rolled his eyes, huffing as he turned away. Though the girl hadn't expressly told him anything, he knew where she stood. He could see in the way she watched him so nervously, how she was careful not to touch him.

It was Maggie and Shane. It seemed they would be the hardest to win over, not that he was going to bend over backwards to do anything about it. He couldn't give a shit, not anymore. Shane never liked him anyway and there was no way in hell he was going to change anything now.

Whatever, it was absolutely mutual; he didn't trust the other man, didn't believe any one of those lies that came from his mouth.

"You can't go with him. He's dang-" Glenn pulled her aside, looking more annoyed with her than anyone's ever seen.

"No, Maggie, he's not. He got bit saving my ass back there. Would you say the same thing if it had been me?" She didn't answer but it was clear enough.

"We'll be back before dusk." He gave her a small smile and ran after the retreating hunter.

The hunt was mostly carried out in silence but neither man was really looking to make conversation. The group had enough going on, Lori's growing stomach being the focal point of most conversations these days, and it was nice to just be quiet,

They managed a few squirrels and a stray hare but the real payoff came when he spotted the young buck. It was lean and wouldn't provide as much meat as they needed but it was something.

It was an easy kill and true to Glenn's word, they were back at camp before dusk.

The prospect of fresh meat was far too exciting a thing and Daryl found himself being thanked and praised, as though they hadn't spent the better part of two weeks ignoring him.

He wondered if they knew how twisted their actions were and then he realized how stupid a thought that was.

Of course they didn't know. He had never met a group of people more self-absorbed and caught up in everyone else's problems than this one.

The night progressed as though it had never happened, as though the past few weeks had been a weird hallucination. They laughed and chatted, mostly amicably, and gushed over how good it felt to eat fresh meat, how they would all sleep well tonight.

But Daryl didn't share the sentiment.

The venison, something he had always enjoyed, tasted like dirt. He chewed it, trying to understand what was wrong. Had it gone bad? No, no one else seemed to notice and he had butchered the animal himself.

The meat was fine.

But still, it tasted gritty and flavorless, smelled and tasted too bitter. One bite and he was back to thoughts of powdered eggs and Spam, his stomach turn violently.

He forced himself to swallow, refusing to loose his stomach contents in front of the group, and pushed his share aside, a low frustrated growl emanating from his throat.

* * *

><p>It was getting to him, the hunger. He hadn't eaten in well over five days and every little thing was setting him off.<p>

He tried his best, not wanting to scare anyone. No matter how they acted towards him now, he knew it was still there, that wary fear.

But fuck, it was frustrating. Nothing tasted right; venison, hare, squirrel, hell he had even tried frog, but it was all the same.

He figured, the way he was going, starvation wasn't far off, and wouldn't that just be a giant 'fuck you' from the universe.

He was gutting a particularly fat hare he had caught when the thought occurred to him.

The stench of blood was overpowering, giving the air a metallic quality and, he was willing to admit for a short moment, intoxicating.

He had eaten raw game before, mostly in the name of survival. He knew that if you did it right, if you didn't let the exterior of the animal contaminate its insides, if you didn't puncture the organs, it was relatively sterile.

He couldn't help but let out a morbid chuckle at that. What could possibly make him sick, now? He was infected with whatever had taken mankind down. E. Coli could kiss his ass.

The thought of food, of being satisfied was too much and he threw all caution to the wind, not giving a single fuck over the fact that he was sitting right there in the middle of the camp.

He plunged a hand into the hare's abdomen, rooting around and pulling out the meaty pulp of a kidney.

Without a second thought, he popped the morsel into his mouth, not even bothering to wipe the blood that was dribbling down his chin

And damn.

He had never tasted anything so good in his whole mess of a life. He let loose a relaxed sigh as he chewed, eyes drifting shut.

It was as though it was brining him back to life, peeling away the exhaustion and the fatigue that had settled in his muscles, clearing the cobwebs from his head.

A shocked silence fell over the camp and there was no doubt in his mind that it was because of him.

_Hell__with__them_, he thought. It was too damn good.

"Dude." Finally, after several mouthfuls of blissful, uninterrupted eating, Daryl looked up at the camp.

Lori looked shocked, a little perturbed before firmly telling Carl to shush when he let loose a small, "Ewww!"

Carol and Rick looked, well, they looked as though they had known all along. Andrea gave him a once over and then appeared disinterested, but Glenn, his forehead was wrinkled in disgust and his mouth open in a grimace.

"That's disgusting."

* * *

><p>They got used to it, as strange as it had initially seemed.<p>

Even Shane, who had been certain this was just another sign that things were not okay, stopped complaining.

It became normal.

On nights Daryl came back from a successful hunt, he would cook a portion of the meat, most of it, and leave some uncooked for himself.

No one really said anything anymore.

He never said a damned thing about how good they all smell to him, however. How, more than once, he's nearly taken a bite from each of them.

They really don't need to know about that, he reckons.

On days of a failed hunt, or when they've been hunkered down for too long, someone will get close and he'll be able to smell them, their sweat and even the blood in their veins, and he swears on his life he can hear their hearts beating.

He grinds his teeth and hates himself for salivating.

But he never does it, will _never_ do it.

* * *

><p>"The Walker Stalker."<p>

The conversation was mildly interesting, at best, but it wasn't until the next bit that he figured he should be worried,

"Oh, good one, how about, The Darylnator."

He stopped mid cut, knife just at the squirrel's ribcage, and lifted his head.

"Too lazy."

Carl and Glenn were hunched over no more than 10 feet away from him, separated by a small thicket of bushes. He supposed they thought he was out hunting because what were they talking about? Superheroes? _Again?_

"The Dixonator?"

Daryl rolled his eyes and stabbed his knife into the tree. This was getting ridiculous.

"You're really bad at this."

"What are you two goin' on about?" Glenn and Carl whipped around, looking for all the world like they had been caught doing something bad.

"The Dixonator?" Glenn looked down and then fixed him with that puppy dog look, sheepish and helpless.

"Okay, I know I said I would stop comparing you to a superhero, but, hear me out, I think you might actually be one -"

Carl nudged the older man in the ribs, effectively cutting him off.

"Ok, ok, I'm sorry."

But Daryl shrugged and Glenn could swear he could see a slight upturn of his lips as the hunter turned to Carl.

"Walker Stalker. Not bad."

* * *

><p>"I was bitter." Andrea came up and said to him one day, as if explaining her behavior for the past weeks. As if it made up for everything.<p>

But it did.

It explained all of it, those quick glances, the painfully executed avoidances, the fact that she wasn't exactly being cruel to him.

"I couldn't look at you and not think about Amy, just when I thought I was moving on –" Her eyes were rimmed red, puffy; it looked as though she had been up all night crying.

"I was mad at you. Mad that for some reason you survived and Amy didn't, I should've been grateful that you were okay and – I'm sorry." When he didn't say anything she seemed to remember the satchel on her shoulder.

She pulled out a small bundle of crossbow bolts

"I should piss you off more often." Daryl said, reaching forward to take the arrows. He figured it had something to do with the world she came from before, back when she was some high and mighty lawyer, the way she felt the need to give him something to make right by him.

She watched as he turned them over in his hands, bent them slightly, and checked the tips.

"Found them on a run with Shane, thought you might like them. I noticed yours were looking a little beat." She was right; his bolt's days were numbered.

She started to turn away but Daryl stopped her.

"Hold up." It came out before he had time to really think about it, his voice low, rough.

"If I could switch places with her, with Amy, I would."

He could see the tears forming in her eyes and she sniffed, rubbing a hand across them.

He ducked his head in a small nod, not one for dealing with crying women, and headed off, across the field, to break in those new arrows.

* * *

><p>Things changed again when they found out that the Walkers had no interest in Daryl.<p>

They'd sniff at him, look him up and down, but ultimately would become disinterested, further proving that whatever Daryl was now, it wasn't completely human.

He couldn't sleep that night, or the night after.

* * *

><p>"You are." He didn't know when the woman had become a damned mind reader and so in tune with his subconscious, but he wasn't sure he liked it.<p>

"Human, that is." Carol went back to folding his shirts and they never spoke of it again.

* * *

><p>He stopped hiding his scar.<p>

It hadn't been a big thing; he hadn't even thought about it. It was almost like he just forgot one day.

And it wasn't even the scar that drew the most attention.

"Oh my God!" Andrea gasped, mischief clear in her eyes, "The sleeves! They're gone!"

Lori and Carol chuckled along with her and Daryl rolled his eyes.

"Ya'll got nothin' better to do than worry over a man's sleeves? Good Lord."

That only made them laugh harder but he wasn't complaining.

* * *

><p>It came in handy, his apparent invisibility to Walkers.<p>

He could walk right up to one, damn near shake it's hand and then kill it with a Q-tip if he wanted.

He would never say it out loud, but it took all the fun away from killing 'em and it really made no difference for the rest of the group.

Walkers still chased and hunted _them_ down.

It didn't make a difference until the day their efforts to knock over the local surpluss store went to terribly wrong.

Carl, trying to do his part in protecting the group, got himself separated from them, from his parents.

And it could have ended so terribly. _Could __have._ Daryl never thought he would be fucking _thankful_ for this thing inside him.

"Carl!" Rick shouted, blowing a Walker's head clean off. They were relentless, uncountable.

Carl had backed himself into a small crawl space, out of sight of the others as the Walkers swarmed, groping and grabbing.

"Carl! My baby! Let me go, Rick! Carl –"Daryl could hear Lori's shouts from across the store, though he couldn't see the panicked mother, couldn't risk calling out, being as close as he was to Carl's position.

He crouched down, mostly out of habit because he knew those thing shad no interest in him, not anymore, and made his way to the spot he knew Carl to be.

The kid gasped, holding out that pistol before breaking into a wide smile.

"Daryl! I –"

"Listen to me, okay? Just be quiet, keep your head down and don't say a word, got it?" He said somewhat roughly but this was no time to be gentle with the kid.

Carl understood though, nodding, wanting to show him that he could be an adult too, that he could do something scary and not be afraid.

He motioned the kid onto his back, crouching down long enough for the kid to get a proper hold, and stood, crossbow in front of him, Carl's small arms wrapped around his neck.

They made their way slowly through the other side of the department store, through a damned herd.

Carl clung to him, his arms too tight around his throat, but Daryl didn't say anything.

The Walkers stopped occasionally, eyeing the strange package on the man's back as he literally pushed his way through. When one or two of them got a little too close, a little too interested he would stop, staring it down, waiting for it make a move, and when it eventually turned away, he would continue.

Blood and guts covered the floor and every so often something would crunch under his feet. And the smell –

The whole place was abuzz with flies and the smell was enough to bring anyone to tears.

It felt so wrong, to be brushing against these things, walking amongst them, and to not be attempting to kill them.

He didn't dare to think what this meant for his humanity; to really, _really_ explore that would be too much.

"Daryl –" Carl whispered when one got too close, hand out as if to touch, to explore this strange thing on the man's back, but Daryl shushed him. The exit was just ahead, only a few more steps.

Finally, they made it to the door, but he didn't dare pick up the pace or allow the kid to get to his own feet.

They still had to meet up with the others, at the rendezvous point that had decided upon, and the parking lot was thick with Walkers.

It took longer than he would've wanted, the pace grueling and slow, but they made it.

Carl crawled down, throwing himself forward, at his mother and father and the rest of the group. He couldn't help the small, fleeting smirk as he watched them crowd around the kid.

"That was incredible!" Glenn offered as he approached.

"I've never seen anything like that before," Andrea was beside herself as she stood beside Carol, both wiping at tears that were no longer needed, they had all been sure, so sure … "they didn't even look –"

"We were watching," Dale said as he held up binoculars, "we couldn't believe what we were seeing!"

"I'm okay, really - they didn't bother us, mom, we just walked right through –" Carl regaled them from his place, squashed between his parents.

Even Shane, who had been watching with mixed emotions, spoke up.

"That was - something." Daryl took it for what it was, for it was all he was going to get from the other man.

That night Lori gave him the most bone-crushing hug he had ever received, her hand cupping his jaw when she finally pulled away.

"Thank you, for everything." He gave a small nod and turned to walk away but she wouldn't allow it. If there was something he liked about her it was that she was determined, when she had something in mind, she pursued it. "Hey, I know you have a hard time with this but you have to know, there is nothing I take more seriously than my son."

He watched her, careful to keep his expression in check, because he had no clue where she was going with this.

"There aren't many people I trust completely with my Carl's safety, but you, I trust him with you."

Daryl suddenly felt very exposed, very aware of the scar on his arm, very aware of the way the moonlight tended to play off his eyes (Carl, actually, had been the one to mention it) and he suspected Lori could see it.

She was good that way.

She quickly made her exit, not wanting to hold him emotionally hostage.

"I just thought you should know that."

Later, when he had had time to process the day Rick, too, came to him, thanking him, just like Lori had.

Between the two, he was fairly positive it was the first time anyone had actually expressed gratitude this directly to him in his entire life.

Fuck.

He hardly knew what to do with it, hardly knew what it really meant as words of the past floated around in his head, trying to remind him: _worthless.__Infected.__Dangerous._

"I don't think I can ever repay you, Daryl, for what you did."

"Ain't like they were gonna' come after me." He grunted because, well, it was true.

"I know, but I don't think it matters, don't think you had to do anything about it if you didn't want to." The two men stared into the fire. It was Daryl's watch and it seemed to be the only time he got any peace, anymore, but Rick, Rick didn't bother him. The man always had enough to worry about, too much to get on his ass about every little thing.

"I don't pretend to know what your going through, to know what it's like," Daryl could at least appreciate the fact that the man did his best to avoid looking down, at that scar, like everyone else seemed to do, "but I do know that you're as much apart of this as anyone else … maybe even moreso."

They sat in silence for the rest of Daryl's watch and when Rick finally slipped away, muttering a small 'goodnight', the hunter leaned back to stare up at the stars.


	3. Run Right Back, an Epilogue

Once Bitten, Twice Died  
>By Cider Sky<p>

* * *

><p>"<em>The most terrifying thing is to accept oneself completely."<br>_- Carl Jung

* * *

><p>Months later and there were days that Daryl himself forgot he had been bitten and survived, that, more than likely, the infection still coursed freely through his body.<p>

There were still those noticeable quirks, the fresh meat, his eyes – but added to that collection was his increased strength, his stamina.

He found himself staying up multiple days in a row, not because of insomnia, but because he just wasn't tired.

At first, when he would offer to stay up the entire night, to stay more than his allotted time on watch, they had refused.

But as the days wore on they started accepting his help, accepting that he _could_ stay up for days at a time. That he _could_ man handle a three-hundred pound deer on his own.

But other than those odd reminders, things were beginning to settle. Not that this world was a calm, resolved place, but things were changing for him, for all of them.

Somehow, as the weeks and months passed them by, he became someone they trusted, someone they looked up to as a leader, a friend. It was the little things, the way Rick would pull him aside, map in hand, and ask for his advice; it was the way they looked to him when Rick was out of commission.

And then it became so much bigger than that.

When Lori gave birth she _wanted_ him to hold that tiny, little girl, not caring when the child's head rested in the nook of his arm, just over that scar.

When Shane died, Andrea cried into his shoulder and he didn't once question her or say a damned thing about the man. Didn't mention Otis or the fact that the man had been a bastard to the end, eve though she knew just as well. He just accepted her when she buried herself in his arms.

On the nights Rick was too haunted by images of his old friend, he would seek Daryl out and they would sit, saying nothing, deep into the night and early morning.

When Carol took her life, that night in mid-October, he could feel the stirrings of that thing inside of him, made of nothing but anger and pain. The others saw it, too. Though he never said much about it, even as he lay her in her grave, they stood by him. They always stood by him.

Six months after that, when T-Dog got bit, Daryl sat with him, the silent question of whether the same would happen to him weighing on them all. Daryl didn't say much, but when T-Dog reached for his hand, he didn't deny him the contact. And when T-Dog turned it was Daryl who put him down, as kindly as he could, with a quick jab of his Buck knife.

He became capable of things he thought were out of his reach. He had never been much for friendship, had never really known it, but he found the greatest example of one in Glenn; they were nigh inseparable and though he was still far too gruff and secretive to admit it, he loved the man, maybe even more so than he ever had his own brother.

He would never know how it had happened but he didn't care much to wonder about it.

He just did what he had always done. He protected the camp, protected these people. He hunted for them, killed for them, would die for them _again_, _twice_, if that's what was needed.

For the first time in a very long time, he didn't think about leaving, why he needed to leave, why he should've ended it so long ago– none of that bullshit.

For the first time he started to accept that he didn't have to die alone, that now, he _couldn't_, even if he wanted to.

As he thought about such things, staring up at the night sky, filled with more stars than he ever knew existed, he remembered another question.

_Why hadn't they been able to do it?_

The answer came easily, that night, unfettered by memories of his brother or by fear or the usual onslaught of self-hatred.

The answer came and it filled every little space within him.

* * *

><p>AN: This started out as just a half-zombie Daryl story for the TWD_Kinkmeme, but accidentally turned into a quiet character study, so, I hope no one was disappointed by the lack of action and the sappy epilogue. I'm as bad as the AMC writers. Oh well, sometimes I just can't help myself.

Thank you for reading!


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